“I should like a rose ice,” Belinda offered. “And you could use coloring to make it even more red. It would be so pretty.”

“Did you know that the carmine we use for coloring foods is created from crushing up cochineal, a scale insect in the suborder Sternorrhyncha?” Bernadette asked.

West groaned softly. “Bernadette, please.”

“How horrid!” said Miss Chandler, her eyes wide.

Birdie stifled a giggle.

“What have I said?” asked Bernadette. “It’s only the truth.”

Miss Chandler sniffed. “I shan’t have any insects served at my wedding feast, nor any fastened upon my person.”

“Of course not, dear heart.” Mrs. Chandler frowned at Bernadette. “No one is suggesting such a thing.”

“Every detail must be more lavish and costly than Dottie’s wedding.”

Belinda nodded. “I’ll make a list for you. And I’m certain I saved the notice about the wedding in a book. I’m collecting ideas for my own wedding, you see.”

What was this fixation upon weddings? West had never heard the like of it. The ladies continued their planning, piling on extravagances. At least he wasn’t paying for it. All he had to do was appear in the cathedral freshly shaven and shod and say I do.

I do take this American heiress, whom I barely know, to be my wife. Till death do us part.

A sobering thought.

Do you know the very least little thing about her? he heard Miss Beaton ask and remembered how indignant his answer had made her.

Miss Chandler’s father had assured West that he could live in London and his wife would live mostly in Boston.

That was all he needed to know.

His life could go back to dimly lit rooms, aged whisky in his glass, and not a hint of frothy lace or rose-flavored ices in sight.

A blur whisked by the parlor window and then back again. A face peered through the window. Of course it was Betsy, doing her best impression of a mischievous sprite from some country folktale. West made a surreptitious beckoning motion. Betsy shook her head. West glowered. Betsy brandished a cricket bat and ran away.

Could he blame her? West wished he could escape and go play cricket with his rebellious sister. He’d rather be smashing balls with bats than discussing . . . what were they deciding now?

“. . . hand-embroidered serviettes with our initials in gold thread . . .”

Suddenly there was a loud crack and a cricket ball shattered the far window and sailed into the parlor, headed directly for Miss Chandler’s head. West launched from his chair and dove at the ball, catching it neatly, crashing into a roll on the carpet and landing with a thud against Miss Chandler’s chair. She shrieked and her chair wobbled backward, nearly spilling her to the floor.

Mrs. Chandler rushed to her daughter, grabbing her by the arms. “Are you injured? My poor baby. Speak to me!”

His sisters sat there, mouths gaping open.